


if i can't count on you today

by orphan_account



Series: tomorrow they'll see what we are [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jack Kelly doesn't leave New York for Santa Fe. Either of them.





	if i can't count on you today

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Santa Fe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628821) by [KnightNight7203](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightNight7203/pseuds/KnightNight7203). 



Jack Kelly doesn't step through the grand doors ( _too grand for a kid like him_ ) of Grand Central Station. 

Instead, after the strike is settled and after he's sold his last pape for the day, he walks. Down the streets of New York, the very dirt and stone and concrete he swore he wouldn't let snuff him out. Past warmly lit windows where families are having their dinner together ( _maybe one of them belongs to the Jacobs', maybe he's walked past them already without even knowing because they all look the same_ ), through the paths of Central Park ( _all that green doesn't seem to suit someone like him_ ), through alleyways and streets he knows like the memory of his mother's face until he reaches the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.

He's not stupid — he's a Manhattan guy, born and bred, he's not going to tread on Spot's turf, no matter the time of day. They may have reached a truce for the strike, but there's things in life that don't change and this will always be one of them. He's Manhattan and Spot is Brooklyn, and they don't try to mess with each other if they don't want to get messed up.

But the bridge itself is neutral territory, a crossroads between what's his and what's Spot's, and it's high enough that he almost doesn't feel trapped again. That's the thing about New York, really — after the Refuge, after a night spent bruised and beaten down in Pulitzer's cellar, after years of being trapped among these streets — well, some days ( _today, and probably a lot of days yet to come_ ) it feels like the buildings are just closing in on him. Encroaching, would be the word Davey might use. Sneakin', Crutchie would say ( _he should go back, make sure Crutchie is okay, not out here running away_ ). Knowing Race, the kid would make some sort of innuendo out of it, get a laugh out of the rest of the Lodging House.

Jack doesn't laugh.

The air is cold at night, but he's no stranger to the cold and the open air, and he breathes it in like a man in a desert might drink from a well. For a few moments, it's just Jack and the cool air around him and the quiet rumble of the river far ( _far_ ) below. Here, where the wind flows freely around him and the noise and buzz of the city becomes dim and distant to his ears, Jack can almost imagine leaving for real. Picking up whatever meagre belongings he has to his name and leaving for the Santa Fe in the West ( _or forgetting his things because he wouldn't need them, out there in the Other Santa Fe_ ).

"Kelly."

He doesn't look to find the voice, they both know he's allowed to be here between their boroughs and after the week they've had, neither of them are going to fight it. "Hey, Brooklyn."

Spot crosses the distance between them to cross his arms and look down at the water, as though searching for whatever it is Jack's been staring at ( _he hasn't been staring at anything, his thoughts are too loud for that and they're crowding his head just like the streets of the city_ ). "Race caught me earlier, says you ain't gone back yet. You'se got some extra papes to sell to the crickets, or what?"

Jack snorts. "Nah, just stale thoughts." Race had noticed he was gone? Someone had? Why they bother with him, after everything that's happened, he doesn't know. These kids got into trouble following him, _and then he just—_ "I didn't do it for the money, you know."

"What now?"

He grimaces. "The— at the rally. I didn't do it for the money. Pulitzer, he says— see, he was threatening Crutchie and Davey and little Les. Talkin' 'bout trapping them alls in the Refuge, or hauling me back there." Jack doesn't want to think about that, about what he's tried to forget ( _and what Crutchie must be going through right now, and without Jack there to listen and help and understand, some friend he is_ ). "And I's— well, he would, you know? And he wouldn'ta stopped with them — Romeo and Race and Specs, all my boys and— he'da gone after them, one by one, for sure. I couldn'ta let him do that."

For a few moments, Spot doesn't speak. The silence stretches long and quiet, until a small hand rests on Jack's shoulder and the other rests on the siding of the bridge with his. "No, you couldn'ta. Not Jack Kelly."

It's not an apology on Jack's part, nor forgiveness on Spot's, but the air feels a little lighter between them. The hand resting by the collar of his shirt moves to pat his back a few times, and Jack bows his head so he just sees the concrete of the bridge rather than the ( _all too tempting_ ) water below. He's not sure what his companion is looking at, but the unusual quiet of Spot's voice sounds like he's seen it all just fine. "Ain't nothing down there for you, Jack. Or way up above— anyone who's waiting for you, they can wait. You'se got boys to keep after an' papes to sell. Go find that Santa Fe out West, but don't try finding it out here— not like that. Them Manhattan kids would be real down without you around."

"... Yeah, I know."

Spot's hand leaves his shoulder after one final pat, and when Jack looks up from his ( _drowning_ ) thoughts, the Brooklyn 'king' is standing with his arms crossed and his head held high. "Head on home, Kelly. I don't want no Manhattan kids runnin' onto my turf tomorrow, askin' where Jack Kelly's gone."

It takes a few seconds to remember how to nod, the movement a bit jerky and short, and they part ways and walk along the side of the bridge back to their respective boroughs. He's not sure how long it takes him to retrace his steps, back through the streets and alleys and Central Park until he reaches the Lodging House, but after what seems like ( _a second_ ) ( _an eternity_ ), Jack finds himself back at the door of the closest thing he's ever had to a home. It's fully dark out, but there's still a light on and two bodies dozing against the wall in the entryway, waiting.

Race still has a cigar gripped between his teeth, and opens one eye lazily when Jack shuts the door behind him. " 'Bout time you got back. Crutchie's been waitin' for you, Jack. What'd you do, get lost lookin' for pretty reporters?"

"Nah, just tryin' to learn to fly." He's not sure how much Race knows, so he adds a note to the end. "You'se catching more birds that way, you know."

A grumble in Italian is his answer, followed by Race pushing himself upright and sauntering up the stairs with an idle wave that leaves Jack wondering what exactly his ( _friend_ ) ( _second-in-command_ ) ( _brother_ ) thought he meant by his words. It doesn't matter, really, because Crutchie blinks and rubs his eyes with one hand before reaching for his crutch and clambering tiredly to his feet to greet Jack with a wordless hug. One that he returns all to readily, pressing his face into his best friend's ( _brother's_ ) ( _is there a word for what Crutchie means to him_ ) messy hair and wrapping his arms around shoulders that shake slightly, even now.

Race may not have understood, but he knows Crutchie does, because the younger boy takes one look at Jack's face and smiles gently. "I guess we's not sleepin' in your penthouse tonight, huh Jack? You wanna share my bed?"

"That'd be great." Jack presses his eyes closed and breathes in the scent of his friend and his family and his home ( _if he can admit it's almost that now_ ), so different from the crisp night air tempting him to reach just a little too far. "Goin' up now, I think I might leap for the moon and miss."

Crutchie wraps one of his hands with Jack's as they turn as one and head for the stairs after Race, helping each other step by step. If they're both trembling ( _for different reasons_ ) ( _for the same reason_ ) ( _does the reason matter anymore_ ), neither of them need to mention it. The room Crutchie shares with Jack and Race ( _alternating, because it's a rare thing when all three of them are in it at once, with Jack's penthouse and Race's odd friendship with the Brooklyn boys_ ) is dark and still, but the walls don't close in on him as he and Crutchie curl up together on the un-occupied bed, and even Race's snores don't sound as ominous as the rush of the river.

Before snuffing out his candle, Crutchie looks at Jack and rests one hand lightly on his cheek for a moment before it drifts to his shoulder. "Don't you go jumpin' for the moon, Jack Kelly, you hear me? We needs you down here with us. Okay?"

In the still darkness, Jack doesn't think of the train station. He doesn't think of the sky. He doesn't think of the river. Maybe, if he can't find Santa Fe in the sky or in the West, he can make his own right here. Right in this room, anchored on this moment, reminding him in case he ever forgets what he's stayed for.

"Yeah, for sure."

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write a quick thing last night I guess, and here it is. Don't know if I'll write more for this fandom or not, but I just wanted to do something on these lines.
> 
> Inspired by the work linked, which gave me the initial idea of the sort of subconscious meaning of 'Santa Fe' and now I'm never going to think of it any other way.


End file.
